


Copulation and Other Sundries

by alovelylittlescandal



Series: The Evolutionary Dating Rituals of Newt Scamander [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Autistic Newt Scamander, Awkward Sexual Situations, Cinnamon Roll Newt Scamander, F/M, Humor, That's it, that's the fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 05:35:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9370313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alovelylittlescandal/pseuds/alovelylittlescandal
Summary: Newt has never known what to do about Sex, when the opportunity has presented itself.Or: 5 Embarrassing Situations Newt Found Himself In, and One Situation That Wasn't Embarrassing At All.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise for some deliberate WWI inaccuracies.

  1. **Thirteen, July 1910**



Normally, summer holidays are Newt’s least favourite, but this time, he has a secret. A wondrous secret that he’s hidden away in the greenhouse. He’s not strictly speaking supposed to be here, because Father uses it to grow potions ingredients.

He’s cleared a back table in the greenhouse for his experiments—repotting cut up Horklumps and observing their new colonies. He has three rolls of parchment so far, that he plans on bringing to Professor Yarmouth at the beginning of the new school year. This is the happiest he has been: rolled up shirtsleeves, hair in wild disarray, with dragon dung halfway down his front.

He’s just watched a Horklump devour an earthworm when the door opens. Newt grabs a dirty cloth and flings it over his pots. He ducks down to his hands and knees. On the floor, several metres in front of him, he can see scuffed Oxfords and high heels. Girl’s shoes?

“Hot in here,” she drawls, and Newt knows that voice immediately. Artemis McGonagall, a prefect, who once docked points from him for having freckles.

Newt raises his head to better see over the top of the table. It is his older brother Theseus, with a girl.

 “Humidity Charm,” Theseus answers. “The air needs to be kept at precisely—”

“Yes, I know how greenhouses work,” Artemis says. “Did you drag me all the way over here just to show me that?”

Newt drops back into a crouch. Just the arch, snotty tone makes his mouth dry and he has no intention of allowing it to be turned on him. He begins crawling toward the entrance, staying close to the table. His brother and Artemis are by the only way out, but perhaps they will leave, once Artemis has had enough?

“Wanted a little privacy,” Theseus answers, low.

There is a wet, unfamiliar sucking sound. Newt cranes his head around the corner, wondering if one of the Dexwin vines has escaped, and wishes he didn’t. Theseus and Artemis are necking up against the locked door, his brother’s hand on Artemis’ arse.

Artemis seems to enjoy this, because she gives a high, flirty giggle. “Cheeky,” she coos, and the noises resume.

Newt quickly pulls his head back and sits rigidly up against the table. He squeezes his eyes shut, wishing he knew how to Apparate, wanting nothing more than to escape. But he’s not supposed to be here and Father will be mad if he finds out, and there is nothing worse than Father’s disappointed look.

Clothing rustles. The unmistakable rasp of a leather belt. The noises intensify into a groan.

Newt clasps his hands over his ears, hunching back further into the table leg. Above him, the unsteady pot wobbles, and crashes onto the floor. Newt freezes in place. Maybe they didn’t…?

“What the bloody hell was that?” Theseus’ voice demands. “Is someone in here?”

“Of course someone’s here,” Artemis hisses. “ _Homenum Revelio._ ”

An unpleasant swooping sensation fills Newt’s stomach and he stands up in surprise. Across the room, Theseus stares at him, his hair mussed, his trousers undone. Artemis, her wand still drawn, looks fit to curse him.

“It’s your snooping little brother,” she says, eyes narrowed.

“Merlin’s beard, Newt,” Theseus snaps. “Are you ever where you’re supposed to be?”

Newt’s eyes flick to his experiment. He can’t let it be seen, and have it taken away. “I just wanted to—”

“What did you see?” Artemis interrupts.

Although she is beautiful, with her plaited blonde hair, Newt thinks the sneer on her heart shaped face renders her very ugly.

“Nothing,” he stammers out. Lying makes his skin tight, but judging by the storm clouds on Theseus’ face, it is the best thing he can do now.

Red sparks fly from Artemis’ wand tip. “Were you spying on us, you little freak?”

“That’s _enough_ , Artemis,” Theseus cuts in. “I’ll handle this. Newt, go back inside the house.”

“I’m sorry,” Newt whispers, but Theseus turns away. The way he looks at Artemis now is not at all similar to how he was looking at her before.

Newt escapes outside. Raised voices erupt and recede as he flees across the grass, back to safety.

It is the last time Theseus brings Artemis over to their estate.

  1. **Sixteen, November 1913**



It is a month before he will be expelled, but none of that matters now. He is sitting on the grounds, wrapped in a scarf, Leta sitting cross-legged nearby. Whenever someone passes, she adjusts her posture to that of a proper lady. But Newt likes her more like this: bent lines, relaxed, but somehow still graceful.

She prods his thigh with the toe of her boot. “Are you done writing that Transfig essay yet? I’m bored.”

Newt scratches out a word with his quill. Ink is splattered on his wrists, and there is a smudge high on his cheek. He is wholly unconscious that he looks mildly batty.

“I need to do well on this.” It is getting too dark to see his parchment clearly. He brings it closer to his face, squints. “Did you include the theoretical properties of Algan’s Principle?”

“Just copy mine,” Leta says.

“I think Professor Dumbledore would notice if I started getting O’s.”

“Well, make a couple of mistakes.”

The right thing to say would be that it is not his duty to entertain her, but he has never been able to say the right thing when it comes to Leta. To his shame, he _is_ tempted by her offer. He struggles mightily to grasp Transfiguration, and barely managed to scrape an O.W.L. He sets the essay aside, unable to concentrate.

Leta sits up. “Good,” she says, thinking he’s capitulated. She gives Newt the secret, private smile that she reserves only for him.

In the darkening twilight, Leta is luminous, even in ordinary school robes. He’s been noticing her beauty more and more lately. The fact that she is a _girl_ seems to matter now, when it never used to before. He is aware more than ever of their differences rather than their similarities: his too tall frame, his ginger hair. The blasted freckles.

Leta, though, Leta is a goddess. No mere mortal, but someone to be worshipped. She brings poetry to his mind, classical allusions to the beauty of Helen of Troy. Women who destroyed civilisations. He is full to the brim with feelings that he can’t articulate let alone explain. 

Now, in the dark, he wonders what it might be like to kiss her.

“We should do something,” Leta proclaims, and he jumps a little, as if she was a Legilimens and could pull the thoughts from his mind.

“Exploding Snap?” he offers, weakly.

She gives a contemptuous wiggle of her fingers. “That’s childish,” she dismisses. “Think of something better.”

Leta has always been impetuous, but this ennui is new. The cruel streak is new. Or maybe it has always been there before and Newt has just never noticed.

“It’s almost curfew,” Newt points out. He almost never loses points from Hufflepuff, at least not through any deliberate flaunting of school rules. Usually if he does, it is because of Leta.

“Hang curfew,” says Leta. “We’re nearly of age.”

Newt flicks a nervous glance at the glowing windows of the castle. The professors will be coming along soon, with their lit wands, to roust any stragglers.

“A few minutes more,” he compromises, and settles back in the grass.

A breeze whips through, ruffling his hair. Windswept, Leta’s cheeks are pink with cold, her hair tousled…dare Newt even think this… _romantically_. He sits, stock still, frozen with the sudden knowledge that Leta is a _girl_ , that he loves her, that he really wants to kiss her. He might even want to do more than that.

“Leta…” he says, her name melting in his mouth like spun sugar. “Do you want to…?”

“What?” she says, already ready to dismiss him, and it’s this more than anything that makes him lean in and kiss her.

It is a mistake; he can tell by the way she stiffens under his lips. She leans away from him, wiping her mouth with the palm of her hand. Erasing the taste of him.

She flicks him a talon-sharp look from under her dark eyelashes. Gives a throaty chuckle, lips curling up slightly. “Really, Newt. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Newt does not consider himself prone to hyperbole, but something truly curls up inside of him and dies. A bright well of joy is drained. _Ridiculous_ , the word rattles around in his mind like a bat devoid of sonar. He is accustomed to seeing contempt from other people. But not from her. Never from her.

Newt shoves his textbook into his bag and stands up. He stutters out, “I’m…sorry I did such a terrible thing to you. I’m going inside.”

He only gets three or four steps away before Leta runs after him.

“Oh, Newt, come on.”

Although it kills him to ignore her, he soliders on, bag banging against his thigh.

“Newt, we’re better off as friends.”

He stops. Turns around. His heart is beating almost painfully. “Are we?” He brushes his hair away from his forehead. “Are we even friends, Leta?”

“Of course we are. But I can’t court you. You know how my family feels about half-bloods.”

“You’ve always said that you don’t believe what your family does.”

“I don’t,” Leta says, and as she talks, all Newt hears is _lie._

  1. **Nineteen, February 1916**



Germans occupy the cobblestone streets, but Minsk has never looked prettier. Snow covers the red slanted roofs, candles wink from frosted windows. And Newt is in the company of Sven Levine, the Deputy Director of the Beast Division, there as his assistant. He’s a little young for it, but Sven is impressed with his knowledge.

It is his first year in the Beast Division and he already likes it so much more. Jovial, heavy-set Sven loves Newt and thinks he is brilliant. He uses that word frequently and every time, Newt glows and hugs it close to him.

They are there to acquire a dragon egg from a dealer who has taken advantage of the confusion of the war to slip in from Russia. None of the heavy fines for imports have been enforced and everyone’s jinxes and curses are much more focussed on defence rather than trade. 

Because of the war, Muggles and wizards mix indiscriminately in Minsk. Sven’s Russian is bad and his German is worse, so it is Newt and his Translation Charm that gets them through the city, and settled in a small inn.

They are greeted by a pink-cheeked girl, who sees them into their closet-sized room with a smile. Newt returns it, blushing, as Sven looks on, unimpressed.

“Careful with these Belarusian girls,” Sven says, flopping down on the only bed. “They see an Englishman and they think ‘meal ticket’.”

“I wasn’t—” Newt stammers.

Sven pins him with a look. “Your Stopes Charm as good as your Translation Charm?”

“I honestly didn’t—”

Sven looks over Newt, who blushing to the roots of his hair, and gives a snort. “Never mind. I can see that won’t be a problem.”

They have dinner in the communal dining room downstairs, sitting at the worn wooden tables with their knees knocking together. The two of them are the only patrons in the room, save for an older woman in the corner. Sven, a heavy consumer of mulled mead, heads to bed after downing four tankards.

Newt shifts form the table to an armchair by the fireplace. Sips a cup of tea, watching the flames flicker. He misses home more than he thought he would, or at least the familiar trappings. Be nice to take home along with him.

The girl from earlier comes by, with a round black tray in her hands. She is a sturdy creature, with dark blonde hair and muddy hazel eyes. _Pretty_ , Newt allows himself to think, and accidentally makes eye contact with her.

She sets the tray down on a side table. “You British solider?” the girl asks in English, with a heavy accent.

They are in Muggle uniforms, and it is part of their cover story, so Newt answers yes. The girl points to the three stars on his badge.

“Very young to be captain, no?”

Her eyebrows are drawn together in suspicion so Newt thinks quickly. “My brother, he got me the position. Keeps me off the front lines.” More or less the truth.

“You no see fighting?”

“Not much.”

The girl nods, seemingly convinced. Newt refocuses on his tea, trying to drink faster, leave this dangerous situation.

“I see lots. Destroys my village.”

“Germans?”

“Russians, Germans, all the same. So now, I am here.” She shrugs. “I serve drinks and fuck officers.”

Newt chokes on his tea. “I beg your pardon?”

“You want to fuck me?”

“I—Merlin’s beard, no,” Newt says, still coughing.

“Who is this Merlin?”

“Just…just a saying,” Newt stammers out.

The suspicious look returns. “Why you no fuck me? I not pretty? You have girl back home?”

“No, no. I—” He stops talking and looks down, quite hot under the collar.

The girl sits forward, as dispassionate as any Healer. “I know what problem is. No worry. Is easy to fix.”

She reaches over and before Newt knows what she’s on about, has run two hot fingers up the crotch of his uniform trousers. Newt startles badly, upsetting his cup of tea, and falls out of his chair. The cup clatters to the floor and shatters into tiny porcelain fragments.

The old woman turns her head. Newt, his face aflame, blots ineffectually at the wet wool. The girl’s face cracks into a smile, then she is cackling, her whole body shaking.

New ascends to another unknown level of embarrassment, unknown to wizardkind. He stammers out an apology, and stages a retreat, leaving both the broken cup and the pretty girl laughing at him.  

  1. **Twenty-Six, June 1923**



Evie Schmidt works two desks down from him. He sees her more than four times a day—when she comes in, at the morning meeting, at the mid-day meeting, and when she leaves. She has a round face that might ordinarily be called plain, with overlarge glasses. But her eyes have a naughty mischief, and she’s always smiling.

Around her cubicle are her paintings of hippogriffs, their wings soaring off into the sunset, or their backs dappled with moonlight. Her robes are decorated with pins of Kneazles, which she breeds.

Newt likes her. She always has a kind word for him, and she always offers him a sweet when he’s passing her desk.

He wants to ask her out to dinner.

“Evie Schmidt?” says Theseus incredulously when Newt runs this plan by him. They are sitting in the basement canteen at the Ministry, because Theseus likes to _check in_ every once and a while. “Odd duck Evie, the one who was two years below me? Funny looking, with that large—”

“Theseus.”

“—heart,” he finishes, and Newt knows that was _not_ the word he was going to use. “She’s got a lovely large heart, I’m sure. But you’ve travelled the world, Newt. You can do better than Evelyn Schmidt.”

“What does that mean, Theseus?” he says, even though he thinks he knows. It means that Evie looks nothing like the witches that Theseus takes out dancing, with their sleek bobbed hair and their slender figures. She is deemed not worthy, just as Newt was, so many years ago. “She’s a nice person.”

“Yes, well,” Theseus hedges, and he looks down at his sheppard’s pie, the mashed potato crusted and yellowing. Newt thinks that he is casting around for something to say that isn’t based purely on looks. Theseus’ sleek perfection leaves no room for errors. “Aren’t you going away again? You don’t want to be tied down when you’re this young.”

All of this is perfectly true and has absolutely no bearing on whether or not Newt should take Evie Schmidt and her wonderful personality out for meal.

“I think I’ll take her to the Imperial,” Newt says.

Evie says yes when he asks her. She looks surprised, but a bit pleased.

After they eat, he holds her elbow as they walk down Magnolia Alley, her high heels clicking over the cobblestones. In the warm summer air, there are many couples promenading around, close-knit duos. Newt envies their closeness, the way they seem to disappear into one another.

“You breed Kneazles?” he asks.

“Yes, ever since I was fourteen,” says Evie. She brushes a strand of hair off of her forehead. “They’re wonderfully smart and are quite capable of being trained to detect intruders. I’ve tried speaking to the Aurors about utilising their capabilities, but they think I’m silly.”

“A lot of Aurors aren’t very open-minded,” murmurs Newt. He imagines his brother’s face when presented with this proposal and winces.

Evie gives him a side look. “Do _you_ think I’m silly?”

“I think it’s marvellous,” Newt says. Because he does, and it’s sound reasoning and he’s always loved Kneazles.

She smiles and it transforms her in every sense of the word. She is a stunning woman, and anyone who can’t see it is blind.

“Thank you for asking me out,” she says, pausing in front of a stone ionic column.

They are well-hidden from the public view here, and Newt’s hand on Evie’s elbow suddenly feels unseemly. He withdraws his hand, and her mouth makes a small, downturned moue.

“You’re…different, Newt,” she says, and he can’t tell if she’s happy about that or not.

He has no response for this other than agreement or apologies, so he stuffs his hand in the pocket of his robes.

“My brother says I have a condition,” he says.

“Your brother is sort of a prat,” says Evie and then blenches. “Sorry. That was rude. I just meant to say that it’s a good different, that’s all. And I like it.”

“Most people don’t say that.” His heart feels warm and very full. He is aware of how close her hips are to his hands.

“They’re not me or you,” she says softly. “So why should that matter?”

She stands up on tiptoes and kisses him, open mouthed and wet. Her lips are dry but warm. It is the first time a woman has touched him on terms that suit both of them. When he draws back, her eyes are liquid and shimmering.

“I wasn’t sure I’d get to do that,” she says.

“I think you should do it again,” he replies, feeling bold, and this time reaches out to touch her waist. The silk of her robes are cold beneath his fingertips as she kisses him again, an indiscernible burst of sensations.

He backs her up towards the ionic column, mind completely clear of any thought, his hands tangling in her hair.

It is 1923, and Wizarding Britain is modern but not overly so. Willing to overlook certain trespasses, but not others. Such as snogging outside the Minster of Magic’s private residence.

The lights come on when Newt’s hand is dangerously low on Evie’s waist, when Evie’s lipstick is smeared, whore-red on Newt’s lips. The Auror who is assigned to protect the Minister’s personage runs outside with his wand drawn.

“There are _decency laws_!” he shouts, as Newt and Evie spring apart. “Have you no shame?”

“So-sorry,” Newt stammers as Evie giggles. “We didn’t know!”

The Auror flicks his wand. The hedges on either side of the entranceway come to life, slapping their faces with branches as they run out onto the street.

“And let that be a lesson to you!” the Auror calls.

They run halfway down the alley before Evie pulls on his hand, stopping him. “Oh, goodness, that was funny.”

Newt conjures a handkerchief and wipes his face. “Funny?”

“That stodgy old Auror needs to buy a sense of humour. It’s just a little public necking.”

Newt rubs his face harder. His face feels flame red, but he’d rather have it be from the handkerchief than the humiliation. “We shouldn’t have done that.”

Evie’s smile falters. “Newt.”

“Well, we shouldn’t have,” he says, and doesn’t look at the way her face falls. “I really must be getting home, Evie. Can you find your way back to your flat all right?”

“I don’t need an escort,” she says, clipped.

“I’ll see you at work.”

“Good-bye, Newt,” she says, nothing warm or friendly in her eyes, and Apparates.

He finds himself looking at the space where her body has been, wondering why he can never seem to get it right.

It is the first time he realises that he has the capacity to hurt others as much as they do him.

  1. **Twenty-Eight, August 1925**



Newt leaves Sudan with tears in his eyes, his heart in his throat and an Obscurus in his suitcase. There is still the dry, hard-baked dirt of Rufaa clinging to his boots, Nafisa’s wails echoing in his ears.

His destination is Amsterdam, ostensibly to meet a rare book dealer, but his intention is to escape. Rents a room from a Muggle on a houseboat in Wittenburgergracht, and spends his evenings in an aimless, feverish haze, wandering the streets without any clear destination.

He does not go into the suitcase.

Amsterdam, with the its narrow alleys and dignified frame houses and abundance of water, looks nothing like the city in which he spent the last six weeks. Newt sticks to the Muggle side, marvelling at the Dutch families on their bikes, eating chips in a cone. Touristing. Which is an indulgent waste of his time, but he will meet Anton Zebregs in three days’ time. So there is nothing to do but wait.

He does not go into the suitcase.

At night, the trams still clang, and the streetlights’ glow can be seen rippling in the black water under the bridge. Newt has gone clear past his usual route, and finds himself in a part of the city he hasn’t seen before. He is very good at directions, and the tangle of streets would not ordinarily be confusing if he were in his usual frame of mind.

The streetlights change to a red hue. It is curious, but nothing notable. Muggles do strange things, especially in foreign countries.

Newt stops walking. He is _lost_.

People move about him on the pavement, undeterred by his sudden impression of a marble-esque Tively bird. He twists a bit in the crowd, and moves towards the safety of a building’s brick wall, trying to get his bearings. Was it left, right, left, left? Or right, left, left, _right_?

“Need a little help, honey?” comes a smooth voice in English.

Newt turns. There is a woman in the window.

She is beautiful, and she is smiling, (smiling, _at him),_ one hand propped on a skinny hip. She has round grey eyes and curly black hair. Rouged cheeks and a rose-coloured Cupid’s bow slicked onto her lips. Beaded, scandalously short dress.

 _Why in Merlin’s name was she in the_ window _?_ As he looks down the row, he sees that she isn’t the only one. At least three other girls are confined with her, dressed in the same decorative manner.

The strangest thing of all is that none of the passer-bys seem upset by their plight. In fact, a few well-dressed men are simply staring at the women, lecherous looks on their face.

Dutch Muggles are _barbaric._ Newt feels angry in a way he hasn’t since he’d seen Nafisa’s empty eyes in her slack face, a pure, clean anger that makes magic simmer in his blood. He can’t draw his wand with this many Muggles in the street; too difficult to Obliviate all of them.

“You look like you need help,” he says. “What can I do to get you out from there?”

Her smile deepens. “Baby, all you need to do is _pay_.”

Money is nothing compared to freedom. “How much?”

She names him a sum that is nothing reprehensible, but still fairly large. He is ushered into the building to pay, where he hands the guilders over to a heavy-set bald man with a formidable moustache.

The woman is waiting for him. She smells heavily of rosewater perfume and something sweeter. “Well, baby, what do you want to do?”

“Leave,” says Newt blankly. He looks to the man, who is tucking the banknotes into his pocket, indifferent.

“Uh-huh,” she coos, and flicks a glance at her jailer. He nods. “All right, just for a bit, then.”

She leads him out to the street, tossing a few curls over her shoulder. To his surprise, she slides a hand around his waist as soon as they enter the fresh air. Steers him towards an alcove, with small, slyly tripping steps.

“Are you all right?” he asks. “You’re not hurt in anyway?”

“You like to play the white knight, huh, honey?” she says, and then she is kissing him harder than any woman has before. Touching him with hands that race like Fiendfyre down his torso, shoving his braces off. “I can do anything you want.”

Newt scrambles away, panting for breath. Realises that he’s misread the situation. “I don’t…I don’t want that.”

“You have me for an hour,” she says.

“I—” He blinks. “I’m really very sorry to ask you this, you seem like a nice young woman, but are you a _prostitute_?”

“Baby, you slow or something? You paid me, remember?”

“To help you escape. I thought you were in _trouble_.” He slides his braces back on his shoulder. “I saw you in a _window_.”

“That is how it is done here. You’re English, baby?”

He nods.

“Ah, your people are very prudish about sex.” She crosses her arms, looking more like a professor. “If you’ve only had English girls, you don’t know what sex is. Dutch girls, we know how to take care of a man.”

“I thought that was the French,” Newt says, a little high-pitched. “Honestly, I haven’t anything to compare it to.”

“Nothing?” she says.

“I travel a lot for my work?” Newt offers.

“No women?”

“Well,” Newt flounders, and this seems to seal the deal, because she narrows her eyes.

“Perfect. I will help you, since you wanted to help me.”

“That’s not really necessary,” Newt says, holding up his hands and dancing further back into the alcove.

“You paid.”

“Unknowingly,” Newt points out.

 “Most men’d be going the other way.”

“I’d rather not have sex with you,” he says in a rush.

She stops advancing toward him. Puts a hand back on her hip. This time, it seems more of a thinking gesture than some attractive performance. “No sex?”

He shakes his head.

“Oh.” She leans against the wall, and pulls a cigarette case from her garter belt. “Well, I still have an hour before I have to get back. Want a smoke?”

“No, thank you.” He hesitates. “But could you tell me how to get back to Wittenburgergracht?”


End file.
